


The Black Thorn

by debunker



Series: The Binary Code [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Sexual Content, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock in Denial, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debunker/pseuds/debunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So after Moriarty escapes from Mycroft's prison at the end of Tangled Apart helped by Sherlock and Mary he is nowhere to be found.<br/>Sherlock spends 6 months in Serbia on a mission and now he is back to London. This is a hard time for him being without Jim and without John who is living with Mary ready to marry her.<br/>Flashbacks haunt him but work is the best antidote to sorrow.<br/>With Magnussen and Mycroft hunting Jim with all means possible he is charged to get a certain code from someone close to Moriarty. While he is not thrilled with the job itself he cannot resist the curiosity and obviously things won't go as planned.<br/>Get ready for some angst. Because angsty is the new sexy.<br/>P.S. There will be three parts, one for each related episode of S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black Thorn

Maybe we're victims of fate  
Remember when we'd celebrate  
We'd drink and get high until late  
And now we're all alone

Wedding bells ain't gonna chime  
With both of us guilty of crime  
And both of us sentenced to time  
And now we're all alone

Protect me from what I want...  
Protect me protect me

Protect Me from What I Want - Placebo

 

CHAPTER 1. THE EMPTY HEARSE

“I was much happier when there was only one Holmes in London.”

Magnussen folds his hands and it seems to Mycroft he looks like a huge flesh-eating fly waiting for the meat to get a bit more rotten before its feast.

“Sherlock is back and this is a benefit for us as far as I am concerned.” Mycroft is trying to imitate a polite smile but his jaws are rigid as if hit by a spasm.

Magnussen pats the tip of his index finger on his upper lip.

“No news from our old friend?” He smirks pronouncing “friend” as if he could feel his time is almost over.

“Not yet.”

“We need to get the spider out of his hole.”

Mycroft feels the need to wash his hands. The whole air in this room leaves a thin film of disgust on his skin.

“We need a fly to do so.”

Mycroft watches Magnussen and can’t help thinking of a larger spider not a fly now, one of those you get to keep at home knowing they are venomous.

Magnussen checks the expression of Mycroft’s face and notices disgust with satisfaction. It is so easy to manipulate people once you see their soft spots. He reproduces the images of Mycroft and Irene’s videos in his mind. Not quite as the original but still scandalous enough to bring the government down.

“This is our fly.” He passes to Magnussen a picture of a well-dressed pretty classy man with a very calm, a bit indifferent expression.

“Lord Moran, I suppose.” Mycroft is counting the times they have met on various political occasions.

Magnussen nods and strokes his beard.

“We have nothing on him.”

“Not yet”, Magnussen leans in and Mycroft stops himself from leaning back. “But as far as I know he is going to contact Sherlock to pass him certain information and this is when we get him.”

Magnussen looks like a spider already digesting an imaginary fly. Mycroft thinks he skips today’s dinner for the sake of his waist and just because he is dizzy.

He takes the picture and slowly puts it in his inner pocket.

Magnussen’s eyes go blank behind his spectacles and he makes the slightest gesture to usher Mycroft out which he is happy to do.

As he is leaving the office he cannot help but notice the prosperous bust of Magnussen’s PA. She darts him a sultry look. Mycroft pretends to ignore it but adjusts his tie as soon as he is out of the door.

Magnussen gets out of his office and approaches his PA and they watch together Mycroft taking the elevator.

“That’s not the Holmes of your interest. Don’t get confused, Janine.”

She gives him a smile but as he turns to retire to his room she pulls a long face not even trying to hide her despisal.

* * *

“It is always fascinating to come back to the things one has left behind. They are never quite the same as one used to remember them.”

Sherlock wishes Mycroft was not here to follow him up the stairs of his old flat at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson has left the key to Mycroft which in itself is disturbing.

“The prodigal son is back.”

"Prodigious you mean.”

Mycroft smirks.

“No, Sherlock. It’s prodigal. A widely known Bible story of a man who spent quite some time far from home indulging in excess and lust.”

“Thrilling you are so aware of religious fairy tales.”

“This is not a fairy tale, Sherlock. This is your life. What would mummy say…”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you have gone undercover and but that you would be back eventually.”

“What if I was not back?”

Mycroft seems to think it over for a second tilting his head to the side. Then his eyes meet Sherlock’s and their expression is something Sherlock has almost forgotten Mycroft could even have.

Sherlock walks around his old flat and the smell of a closed room hits his olfactory cells. Dust flies up disturbed as he drags his fingertips along the mantelpiece. It dances in the air and teases his nostrils.

“Strange that Mrs. Hudson did not lend the flat to anybody else since John moved out. I did not imagine her to be that sentimental.”

Sherlock looks around with a mixed feeling. He recognized things but some details seem to not quite fit his memory shapes. Two years since he last stepped in here.

“She isn’t.” Mycroft adjusts with the tip of his umbrella the angle of the carpet which rolled up under Sherlock’s hasty steps.

He waits for Sherlock’s reaction who slowly turns around and squeezes his eyes.            

“You paid her. You have been paying her all this time to make her keep the place for me.”

Sherlock looks at his reflection in the mirror. He somehow feels out of place here. So many memories, not all of them are quite happy.

“Yes.”

Sherlock clutches his lips. He does not like the deduction why Mycroft did it. He sits down in his armchair and slides his palms against the leather of the elbows.

“I never had any doubt from the start it would have gone like this. That you would be back here alone. Did not want to spend my precious time to drag you out of some drug house you would necessarily throw yourself into without a house.”

What is this? Brotherly concern?

“I won’t give you the money back.”

Sherlock looks him straight in the eye. Do not expect any gratitude from me.

Mycroft wrinkles his forehead tiredly.

“I know. And besides, you’ve almost got none. But I have a job for you which could compensate for this stupid period of yours and get you back to normality.”

Sherlock does not react but in the back of his mind he is laughing hard thinking Mycroft knows nothing about his foreign accounts where he has placed some considerable funds received during his consulting job at the time of their travel.

“What job?”

Mycroft tilts his head to the side.

“I’ll leave it to your deduction.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash with an immediate realization.

“Better kill me in this case. I will be of no use.”

“I think you have no choice here. There is a certain person which has to pass you a certain code which you are going to accept otherwise your reputation will be destroyed forever. You have to consider it almost is already.”

“What is so special about this code?”

“You would not understand.”

“Who is this person?”

“Someone close to Moriarty. The only thing you have to do is to get in touch and subsequently we’ll do the rest.”

“I have not seen anyone particularly close to Moriarty.”

“It does not mean they do not exist.”

Sherlock feels an acute pang of jealousy, not even the romantic one but the jealousy of being left out of something that was clearly going on for a while now and Mycroft was well aware of this.

But maybe this will lead him to Jim in some way. He has not had any news since Jim’s escape from prison which happened about six months ago.

“This is touching to see you going down the memory lane.”

“I was not.”

“Do you even know how telling your face is?”

Sherlock keeps it straight.

“Sherlock, he’s gone for good. You have no reason not to cooperate. Admit it. To yourself.”

“Will you just leave me now.” Sherlock turns his back on his brother before hearing the answer.

“Of course.” Mycroft waits for a minute as if expecting him to come back and give him a big hug but then hope dies in his eyes and he sadly breathes in and heads to the door. Before he closes it he stops for a second.

“Have some rest and figure out how to tell John you are not dead.”

Sherlock stops by John’s armchair and picks up the invisible threads from it and his whole figure screams: Go away!!!

“That’s the problem with human relationships which is why I have none – they always come and bite you back.”

Sherlock reaches the door hastily and shuts it closed almost squeezing Mycroft’s fingers. He wishes it was that easy to shut down his thoughts as well.

* * *

“What a pompous way to contact me, Sherlock.”

Mary holds a leaflet reading “Come and talk about resurrection with us.”

Sherlock scoffs and shifts a bit on the bench. She sits and folds her hands on her bag.

“Nice ring. However, I would have expected a solitaire from John. This is more vintage.”

She looks down adjusting it a bit. The air is transparent and when Mary speaks a little hot cloud flies up.

“Well, I’m not 20 anymore.”

Sherlock looks at the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. He likes the fact she is not trying to look what she is not.

“You look good.”

“I do.”

Mary smiles. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes betray a devilish joyful sparkle of her character.

“When are you going to come back officially? To tell John?”

Her expression gets more serious, Sherlock notices deep wrinkles on her forehead.

Sherlock makes an uncertain waiving gesture with his hand.

“Directly at the wedding?”

He shrugs his shoulders and Mary sees his coat is looser than it used to be. Must have lost some weight.

“I could jump out of the cake.”

She slaps his arm.

“Don’t you ruin my cake!”

“Already chosen it?”

“Yes.”

She looks like an average bride-to-be.

“Does John know?”

“Not yet. But he is going to like it. The same about your return.”

Sherlock studies her with curiosity. She must have completely taken over John.

“Okay, maybe not the cake then. Just casually show up in front of him.”

She pulls an angry face. Sherlock remembers John’s shocked expression the night when he and Moriarty staged their suicides.

“And give him a heart attack? Don’t you touch my future husband. Take the cake.”

If only your future husband knew what you did and what you knew.

Sherlock hears concern in her voice and it hurts a bit. John used to care about him. Now Mary cares about John. Did Jim care about him? He was never sure of that. It was no conventional care in any case.

“Look at you. The ring, the cake, the wedding. John. When I asked Mycroft to keep an eye on him I could have never thought he would have hired you.”

“Well, it has not been a job for a while.”

“Love then?”

Mary smiles tenderly and looks at the ring. Sherlock can feels warmth spreading around her.

“Love.”

Mary pauses a bit.

“You know, I’m not getting younger. At some point I thought I might not want to spend the rest of this life alone.”

“I am glad you have got yourself a normal life.”

Mary chuckles slightly.

“What about you?”

Sherlock pauses a little. Normal? Life?

“Well, normal and me are not really getting along.”

“You and Jim were getting along well it seemed.”

“We did.”

Sherlock looks away for a second. Jim laughing lying next to him waiting for him to get closer and kiss him. So childish, so possessive.

“Love then?”

“I don’t think this word is appropriate.”

No word is appropriate actually. Poison. Slow poison. Destroying his being, getting into his every cell, deeper, deeper.

“Please, Sherlock, be good to John. You need to know he’s been through a lot. Don’t act as if nothing had happened.”

Sherlock shakes his head disapprovingly.

“You are a party pooper.”

“Just let me know beforehand.”

“I’ll try.”

Before getting up he kisses Mary on the cheek. She smells good, like a fresh vanilla cake with almonds.

* * *

 

_Several days later_

Mary hears the lock being opened, turns down the radio and gets a sip of white wine from her glass giving a stir to the meat looking quite delicious in the pan. She shouts out from the kitchen.

“Hi, honey!”

She smiles to herself hearing John’s steps, she already imagines him pressing his lips against her cheek and locking his hands around her waist and his skin is cold against her warm body so he stays a bit like this to warm himself up. He is a bit late from the cemetery, must have taken a stroll after to calm himself down. After his therapy and meds he is feeling much better, no signs of depression, very cheered up by the upcoming wedding. Domestic bliss. Only disturbed by the sound of steps which are not John’s.

John appears in the doorway and Mary looks questioningly at him, his face is a mix of embarrassment, happiness, uncertainty and a very old pain starting to melt very deep inside his eyes. As if she could see dark ice getting thinner.

“Mary… darling, we have a guest.”

Mary gulps and puts down her wooden long spoon and braces herself against the counter as Sherlock walks into the kitchen. It takes all Mary’s self-control not to betray her malicious pleasure as she sees Sherlock’s face partially swollen, his coat dirty and his nose still bleeding a bit. Sherlock has the advantage of facing Mary and not John and as he presses his handkerchief against his lip again he gives her the faintest smile and seems not to care at all about his wounds.

“He surprised me at the cemetery dressed as a caretaker, Sherlock’s always had this passion for drama” John’s voice is vibrating a bit and he adjusts his jacket nervously and checks Mary’s reaction.

Mary gives him a very slow nod and her chin goes up and down for a bit as if she were processing the happening.

When she takes her glass of wine and drinks it down in a second. John is taking a step closer towards her but she stops him with an open palm. She pours another glass of wine and looks at Sherlock as if thinking of what to say as cheers.

Sherlock shifts from one foot to another very uncomfortable and looking adorably puppyish.

“Passion for drama you’re saying. Okay then,” and she throws her drink in Sherlock’s face. Sherlock takes it completely amazed and he is glad he has got a handkerchief to dry his face. Wine gets into his eyes and they tingle.

“Mary… ” John is watching them shocked but somehow pleased. Sherlock is wiping his face secretly smirking. Oh, that Mary is what John needs.

“I think I might have asked for it.”

“You definitely did. Look at all John’s gray hair.” John flats down his hair a bit perplexed as if he liked to check his reflection in a mirror. Mary gives him another flaming look but Sherlock sees her anger is fading. Must be tremendously mad because he did not tell her anything about his plan. “So, we have lamb tonight.” She gestures showing the way to the dining room. “Please.” John and Sherlock go to the table looking at her with some joyful obedience. Mary turns her back on them to hide her large grin.

 

“So, you have spent two years travelling around the globe with him?” Mary puts down her glass. It’s past midnight and they have been talking the whole evening. John has for now recovered from the initial shock of learning that Moriarty is not dead and Mary has been playing the part of a-girlfriend-who-knew-nothing convincingly.

“A year and a half.” Sherlock does not believe it. Just some months but it feels as an eternity. “Last 6 months in Serbia on Mycroft’s mission.”

“And where is he now?” John asks and this sounds innocent. Mary makes an effort not to cross eyes with Sherlock and not to reveal their dirty little secret.

Sherlock gives John a long painful look and shakes his head silently. John swallows down his wine. He has never seen Sherlock like this. Mary would instinctively squeeze Sherlock’s hand but this is far from appropriate at this point.

“Do you think he will ever be back?” John’s voice stops for a second before “back”.

Here we go again, Sherlock Holmes, here we go with John asking you questions you would never want to ask yourself. Sherlock feels awkward under the attentive stare of two pair of eyes: John’s careful grey and Mary’s intensely calm bluer ones. John takes Mary’s hand and this is such a natural, instinctive gesture that for a second Sherlock is asking why is he even back. John would have done just fine without him. Would have done just fine.

Sherlock ruffles his hair a bit as to say “let it go” and the lingering sensation of Jim’s ghost hand on his head takes over for a second.

“Maybe you should start dating?” John hushes Mary with a grimace and Sherlock can’t help but cheer up at her good-natured cruelty. Oh, Mary, as if you did not know…

“Sherlock, I don’t think, he is…. Sherlock are you? Now I mean…” John cannot find words to put it right. Sherlock is not going to help.

“Now… what?” Mary is genuinely perplexed and Sherlock thinks she might become a brilliant actress.

“Are you now… you know… interested in…” John makes a weird move with his head as if struggling with the idea.

Sherlock copies his movement looking questioningly at him.

“A relationship?” John exhales at last.

“I’m… John… I’m…”

“Oh, just let him get over it, John, don’t you see, he’s just back home, a bit lost.”

“So. Now you’re on his side?!” John pulls her closer.

Mary gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m always on your side.”

Sherlock watches this exchange of affection with a strange feeling of not belonging and desperately wanting to belong.

“It’s late. Thank you for the dinner.”

Hugs and more hugs and Sherlock leaves. The door closes cutting John and Mary’s lit world from him and he steps into the night. Darkness is around him and gets inside. Maybe it has always been there.

Later in bed Mary lies still while John can’t find the right position for a bit.

“He’s so… him.” John holds Mary tighter falling asleep. His knuckles still hurt after beating up Sherlock for good.

“People don’t really change.”

“They do.” Mary closes her eyes but her mind is alert. She is sure Moriarty is going to be back. The question is how and when.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock steps into the shower and water hits his heavy head. Shampoo bites his skin where John’s fist broke it and pain makes him wake up a bit. Here you are, Sherlock, alone and numb. Back to the castles of sand which since have been washed away. He touches the mark on his right hip. The white burnt scar reads M. He could get it removed but the mark is so much deeper than his skin. As he passes his hands over his body he can’t help but think how totally alien it feels. The last 6 months have been the period when his mind was alive and his body was aching. He has been clean for too long and the cravings have become a constant muffled background of each thought. Jim was keeping him very distracted from drugs. He never really wanted any because his whole body was always geared up. Now that he is back he feels nothing on the physical level. The food tastes like paper, the sleep is just an annoying need of the stupid body and when he looks at himself in the mirror there is something still in his eyes and he doubts it can be moved.

He lies down on his bed and the sheets are nice and fresh. Mrs. Hudson must have prepared everything because Mycroft knew the day he would have arrived. It was all planned. What if it was planned by Mycroft and Moriarty. What if he only was a toy in this game of power between them two. Isn’t it annoying how he really decides upon nothing but his life?

The house is silent and Sherlock turns off the light. He closes his eyes and Jim’s ghost lies down next to him.

“Sherlock,” it whispers in his ear, “Sherlock…”

_He lays still reconstructing Jim’s touch in his memory. The whole mind palace is full of all locations they had sex in and his skin catches a buzz, irritating and sweet at the same time. He feels cautious steps on the floor and a piercing gaze on his body even with his eyes closed. Then an agile body leans over him and Jim’s tongue gets in his mouth, tentatively licking the tip of his tongue. His hands caress Sherlock’s bare shoulders and the touch of his expensive summer wool suit is pleasant. Sherlock pulls him down so that Jim lies down next to him and they just kiss for a long time. This is Jim’s usual game: to wake him up like this in the middle of the night when he is back from his short trips and tease Sherlock without a word. Sherlock finds it annoying and exciting at the same time. He is worried and delighted by the fact sex requires so little mental effort. It is so easy and Jim has this naturally unleashed attitude. Sherlock holds his breath watching Jim covering his chest in small kisses. Every spot he presses his mouth to tingles and vibrates. He puts his hands on his head, messing his hair up and Jim hums grumpily getting between his thighs and making him straddle. He licks and bites Sherlock’s stomach and the tip of Sherlock’s hardening cock pushes against his neck. Jim traces his teeth on his skin designing intricate long patters and his canines pinch the lower part of Sherlock’s belly. Before his hot eager mouth opens to suck him in Jim lifts his eyes and looks at Sherlock. His insolent expression only means one thing: he wants Sherlock to push his head down with his hands and make him swallow his cock. Sherlock recognizes this dark urge and he cannot deny this is all he craves right now. Surrender to control. As Jim’s mouth goes down his length he grabs his hair harder and his hips start moving up and down bringing him the pleasure of illusive domination._

Sherlock ignores his starting erection. He is not trying to touch himself. He slowly falls asleep still alert as if watched by a silent incubus. He clutches the sheet to hold on to something and he still can feel that gaze on him, he doubts he could ever stop to.

* * *

Some days later Sherlock is back from meeting some of his most loyal homeless contacts in London. He sits down at his computer to update his personal maps of the city when he is interrupted.

“You’ve got one new message”. A pop-up window appears at the top of Sherlock’s laptop desktop.

He opens it to find a wink notification from a dating site which Sherlock has never heard of. “The Perfect Stranger” it is called apparently. Sherlock opens it and clicks on the link puzzled. He sees his own profile with a side-on picture which seems to be taken by a photographer. The profile he has never created however. He looks through the brief generic description and opens the envelope with a star on it hanging on the right.

“Sebastian has sent you a wink.”

Sherlock pulls a disgusted face. What a stupid joke. Who could have done it? Has his email been violated?

Sebastian in online and is writing a message. Sherlock studies his picture, a bit blurred, a thin somewhat French face and greyish hair, age around 45-47.

Sherlock checks his sexual preferences on his site profile. “Married to my work,” it reads.

“Nice scarf.”

A message pops up. Sherlock looks back at his own picture; he is wearing his old blue scarf which is no longer with him as Jim has never returned it. Sherlock’s got a new one but it’s not quite the same.

“Can we meet and you will tell me where I can get a similar one?”

Pushy. Sherlock is not used to this kind of conversation.

“It’s vintage. No longer available.”

Sherlock does not really know why he replies, is it for the sake of putting this man back. But no, in the back of his mind he knows this is not a coincidence. It is not a coincidence at all.

“Glad you like rare things. I might have something very special for you.”

Sherlock hopes it is not a sex allusion.

“Something as special as your scarf…”

Is it a stupid way to flirt or is there a message from Jim? The only way to know is to meet this Sebastian. Or is it just an excuse to try and get laid. That’s how they call it. Get laid. That’s what they think it is about.

“Where and when?”

“Lytuens. Tomorrow at 7 p.m.”

A new wink and then Sebastian goes off line.

* * *

He meets Moran at the fancy restaurant in the City. He is sitting in a separate room on a booth-looking seat. Dressed as classic banker though his posture betrays a politician. The grey suit matches his hair and the subtle pink tie is a fresh touch. Frantish, not custom-made but adjusted by a good tailor, drinks still water, must have some digestion problems. When Sherlock sits down at a nicely lit table Moran studies him for a second and Sherlock cannot understand the look in his eyes: is it lust, or pity, or neglect?

Sherlock can sense a nice smell of good food but he does not feel hungry. His whole body is tense as a cord of his violin.

“Glad you’re on time, Sherlock.”

Sherlock twitches at the sound of his name and opens his mouth to say what he thinks about forgetting manners too quickly but Moran chooses to ignore his indignation. He pours Sherlock a glass of wine and lifts his own glass as to say cheers. He takes a sip examining Sherlock with utter interest and then puts his drink down. Sherlock swallows down and looks at Moran who is particularly calm and even smiling lightly.

Sebastian takes the menu and looks down at it. Sherlock copies him supporting the game and he hears Moran speaking softly undertone as if discussing the menu.

“The code you are looking for is here.”

“Good.” Sherlock nods approvingly as if agreeing to the chosen dish.

“You can destroy the Appledore to the core but you cannot use it remotely. We have developed it to be physically connected to the memory.”

We? We? WE?!!!

Moran looks at him and smirks. So touchy. Jim must have teased him all the time.

Moran scoffs at Sherlock’s realization.

“Where is he now?” Sherlock looks through the wine list.

“Nice of you to ask but I cannot tell you.” Moran’s voice is delusionally inexpressive.

“He is taken care of in case you wondered.”

Sherlock stares at the wine list and Jim’s marred skin appears before his eyes. He would never like to see him the way he was in prison.

Moran clearly reads his mind.

“Mr. Holmes, you should train yourself not to reveal all at once as the information I have just given you is useless with your pressure points are as clear as day.”

“Is he watching us?”

“No.”

Moran is playing with his fork. There is something dangerously meticulous in his seemingly random movements.

“Can he hear us?”

Moran smiles with the corners of his lips but his face remains still.

“Quite so.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“You already are.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Get closer.”

Moran pats the seat of the booth. Sherlock slides closer and Moran makes a gesture urging him to shrink the distance between them even more.

Sherlock is reluctant to do so but he leans in to almost talk into Moran’s ear. Sebastian brings his head down a bit and Sherlock finds himself almost speaking into the other man’s neck.

“Jim…” he feels his heart beating in his throat, he finds Moran’s breath on his ear distracting.

Sebastian makes an annoyed gesture and stops Sherlock.

“He wants to talk to you now.”

He takes off his ear piece and places it in Sherlock’s ear. Moran is very neat and smells of an intense woody Acqua di Parma but Sherlock still startles a bit when the warm device touches the inner part of his shell.

Jim’s voice is contorted by a computer program changing its sound and making it unrecognizable for tracking systems. “Destroy what destroys you.” And then his voice fades leaving the words ringing in Sherlock’s brain.

When Moran touches him his fingers linger on his ear more than needed to take off the ear piece and Sherlock pushes it away irritated. Moran drops the earpiece in his water glass and it goes down. Sherlock fights the urge to take it off and put it back in his ear only to be able to hear Moriarty’s voice.

Moran seems to get his state and shows him an open palm. He touches the napkin lying on the table in front of him with his long fingers and gives Sherlock a meaningful look. He looks down at it and indecisively puts down his hand too. Moran places his dry fresh palm over Sherlock’s and Holmes is tempted to pull his hand back but Moran’s fingers grab it harder and it seems to Sherlock massage it. Sherlock feels awkward as he is not used to physical contact any longer it seems. He has not been touched properly since their last night with Jim. Moran abruptly leans down and kisses Sherlock on the mouth making the tip of his tongue slide between Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock is taken aback but before he decides how to react the kiss breaks and he feels a tiny flash drive stuck in his hand. He looks around and understands nobody is watching them.

Sherlock feels his cheeks are flushing red.

“Did you really need to kiss me?”

“Nobody here knows you and no one is staring at a kissing gay couple in such a place.”

“We are not a couple”.

“We could have met elsewhere.”

“I am intelligent enough to give you these files in a place where it would be hard to kill me off immediately without attracting any attention. And there are no cameras.”

Sherlock gives him a long glance. Pretty smart.

Moran closes his menu.

“And maybe I just needed an excuse to kiss you.”

His face remains very still.

Sherlock still keeps his menu open.

“I’m sorry?”

“It is legit to be curious about the one and only who made Mr. Moriarty deliver some of the best people in our London network.”

Sherlock is all ears.

“What do you mean “deliver”?”

“I mean that some people were thrown in the jaws of that hellhound of your brother to let Mr. Moriarty enjoy his time with you.”

Sherlock’s irritation reaches its peak within seconds.

So, Moriarty was buying time by selling to Mycroft the parts of his criminal web. Incredible. Impossible. But this would explain all that allowance they had been given during their strange journey.

He stands up abruptly and the waiter is rushing towards him.

“Have you changed your mind, sir?”

Sherlock looks at the waiter then at Moran and then back at the waiter. Must be a Moriarty’s man too.

“I’m leaving.” Moran watches him disappointed as he turns on his heels and heads towards the exit clutching the flash drive. He’s got work to do.

In the street he stops a cab and gets inside only to find Mycroft already waiting for him in the back seat. He reaches out opening his palm without a word and Sherlock puts the flash drive in it. Mycroft clutches it hard and nods. Sherlock turns his head to the window and wonders how much Mycroft already knows about what has happened tonight. Jim’s voice is still ringing in his ear. If only this is really him. Somewhere deep inside Sherlock believes he is sure this is Jim. He cannot bear Mycroft’s presence right now and ignoring his mumbling about having done a good job he almost jumps out of the car leaving Mycroft calling for him a bit shocked.

He needs to walk, feel his muscles elongate, savouring that voice in his mind, replaying it a million times on his very long and intricate way home. The mental process in him is closely connected to the physical activity. Any activity besides sex. The sound of Jim’s voice is like an injection of adrenaline and he has to make it leave his body, make it get tired before getting home in order to avoid destroying things at Baker St. London lit by yellow street lamps embraces him and hides him in his shadows. He is home. Finally home.

* * *

Sherlock comes back to his flat in a stirred state. Hardly anything makes sense now and 2 hours of walking have only calmed down his body but his mind is restless. Besides, he still can feel the lingering smell of Moran’s cologne. No code and a stranger’s touch on him.

He gets into his dark room and takes off his coat. The smell intensifies. Sherlock thinks he needs to open the window and tell Mrs. Hudson to bring his clothes to the dry cleaner tomorrow when a shadow moves at the corner of his room and takes one step closer to him. He watches this silent figure approach him and he feels his pulse accelerating. Partly because of the risk to be shot right here at the threshold of his own room, partly because the shrinking distance between them is tantalizing and Sherlock has to admit he is not immune to this dramatic appearance despite the fact the visitor is less than welcome.

“If you have changed your mind on the code I have to tell you it’s too late.”

“I know.” Moran’s voice is totally calm, he is sure aware of the fact Mycroft has taken it.

“Let them flirt with it.”

“What do you mean, flirt?” Sherlock wants to turn on the light but Moran stops him taking his hand. Sherlock freezes at the touch. He could KO his right know. Would it be too much?

Moran pulls him by the hand bringing himself closer so that their faces are almost touching and Sherlock sees his eyes in the dark. Very calm, very adult eyes, a bit tired.

“This. Try to make it open in response to their manipulations.”

Sherlock frees his hand and steps back searching for the switch on the wall.

“I’m nothing similar to this.”

Moran studies him.

“You very much are. A binary code. You need two components to be complete.”

“And you think you can be the second component?”

“I could try. If you don’t turn on the light you may see no difference. Or better, you could like it more.” Moran passes his finger on the lapel of Sherlock’s jacket and he pushes his hand away with force. Moran keeps very calm.

“Why reject me? I could satisfy your starving libido.” He speaks casually, as if discussing some tedious political question.

Sherlock tilts his chin up.

“My libido is not starving.”

“Or isn’t it?” Moran’s eyes go up and down and Sherlock feels exposed despite staying fully clothed.

“I’ve got my work.”

“Sublimation then. So how many cases have you solved? Let me guess: zero.”

“I am just back to London.” Sherlock is irritated by the very situation when he has to explain himself to whom? This… man.

“Oh, you all look so fragile.” Moran looks at him curious as if he were a funny specimen.

“Who?”

“You. People in l-l-l-love.” The mocking intonation really gets Sherlock’s nerve.

“I’m not in love.”

He turns on the light and confronts Moran who blinks fast. Must have some irritation from contact lenses Sherlock notices. Vanity. No glasses at his age but an obvious, clearly visible by the typical wrinkles around his eyes myopia.

“That’s a song I’ve heard on the radio. Now say it out loud.”

Sherlock opens the door of the room and ushers Moran out with a harsh gesture.

“Would you mind. Even if you do I don’t care.”

Moran shrugs his shoulders surrendering and walks towards the door. He stops a mere inch from Sherlock and gives him the last long look.

“It’s all the same. Every time. Taken. Shocked. Fallen in love. Left. Depressed. Fading.”

“I was not… left, and I think this is none of your concern anyway.” Sherlock shakes his head and he is really tempted to push him out and send him down the stairs to the front door. “And besides I need none of your advice and with all respect”, Moran smirks bitterly at “respect” and Sherlock does not try to hide his contempt, “you seem no expert to me.”

Moran makes a little “oh” and his hand goes down to the fly of his trousers.

“No expert. You sure? Want to see my mark?”

Sherlock jumps back disgusted and disturbed. Moran almost bursts out laughing.

“What? You didn’t expect that, did you?”

Sherlock cannot reply as everything he is concentrated on is to make the humming pulse in his ears stop. Stop right now.

“Okay, I see. Then, maybe you will like this then.” Moran takes a small bag with a long pill inside it out of his pocket and throws it on the bed. Sherlock startles and his lips move slowly enunciating “OUT”.

Moran lingers for another second that feels like an hour and then he leaves and Sherlock can bet he is smiling with satisfaction.

The blast of the bedroom door being shut makes the dust in the living room fly up.

Mycroft tries to keep calm as he and Magnussen are watching their specialist breaking protection after protection to get to the core of the coded file. After an hour and a half of work at Magnussen’s office the screen fills with numbers. Ones and zeros form a geometrical pattern shrinking towards the center of the display. Finally the file opens. Mycroft exhales and Magnussen darts him an ironic look. No Holmes is able to control their emotions. Staying impassive is the weapon they are never going to use. His weak smile is full of triumph. Not so clever of a boy, Jim. Those passwords though. Poor Sherlock, how was he supposed to crack them without anyone at his side?

The computer wizard seems pretty relieved and sits back satisfied ready to watch the file open and continue his work. Once you get to the core code everything else is a pure routine.

What they see though when the file opens is far from a routine.

A sarcastic cartoon where Mycroft is the king sitting on the throne unfolds. Magnussen can be recognized in a grey eminence behind the throne. They shake their heads in a stupid way to an annoying loud melody. Out of nothing a black horseman appears bearing a certain resemblance to Jim. Grinning he gallops by and cuts their heads which roll down the floor and disappear. He stops, dismounts, picks up the crown and sits down on the throne. In the background the Parliament is in flames and the sound of burning can be heard now instead of the music. It seems to the shocked Mycroft he can actually smell the smoke. He understands this is not his illusion when the computer wizard jumps back from his chair and starts searching for the fire extinguisher in his bag to stop the flames getting over his laptop screaming “Fuck!!!” repeatedly.

Magnussen takes a step back and when he turns to Mycroft his face looks like as if every drop of blood had been sucked out from it. He crosses eyes with Mycroft who clutches his hands behind his back so hard they hurt.

“This is war”, Magnussen says menacingly and Mycroft hears some sheer satisfaction in his voice. 

* * *

 

Sherlock is woken up by a night call.

“We have a body you might want to look at.” Molly’s voice is pretty tired but there is a bright note of excitement in it. Sherlock needs to come to St. Bart’s lab asap. It takes him ten minutes to get ready and five to get a cab. In 25 minutes he is leaning over Moran’s body.

“Someone called the police, found him on the street.

Molly sees Sherlock’s face changing drastically and hands him a cup of burning coffee.

“How was he killed?”

Molly turns the corpse’s head to the side.

“Judging by the bullet hole, he was shot from a point-blank range. Though the hole is not perfectly centered as you can see. ”

A door opens and Lestrade enters.

“You bastard.” He is hesitant whether to give Sherlock a big hug or to kill him.

“I told him.” Molly nods as to say “don’t thank me oh no do thank me as I have saved you from a big awkward “I’m not really dead scene”.”

Lestrade is angry, stirred but truly happy to see Sherlock.

“Here”, he passes Sherlock a phone, apparently Moran’s, with an open page of The Perfect Stranger containing a chat with Sherlock.

“We found the phone on him and there were your messages. You’re not only back but you’re dating as well.” Lestrade is maliciously glad to be able to sting Sherlock. Molly watches carefully his reaction. An insolent answer is boiling in Sherlock’s eyes but Molly doubts this could be anything really punching as Lestrade is right. Luckily, his cell phone rings and he goes out of the laboratory because the signal is better in the corridor. Before Molly says anything Sherlock gets into his investigative mode and it almost seems to him nothing has changed since his last in this laboratory.

“This is not your shift”, Molly looks questioningly at him, “yes, I’ve checked your schedule - and still Lestrade called you. You are not openly dating and not because he is back to his wife – that’s never gonna happen actually – but because you are dating someone else.”

Molly chokes on her coffee.

“How…”

“Obvious. You called me because he had called you to talk about the fact that a man who is presumably dead has been exchanging messages with a man who is now dead for sure. Oh, sure, Lestrade wanted to be completely sure of this – of the fact he is dead I mean - that’s why he called you because he trusts you which means he does not know you helped me stage my death – thanks for the drugs by the way still did not have time to say how very real-life that overdose looked – you should have seen John’s face…” Molly’s mouth corners drop and Sherlock thinks maybe he should not have mentioned John’s shocked expression. “Anyway, the fact Lestrade called you in the middle of the night when you are off duty means he feels entitled to do so and he already had done it many times. As far as I recall you were not that close before I had some time off London which means you bonded after. Presumably something related to my death and grief. Presumably you felt guilty afterwards as you could not tell Lestrade. Presumably you found someone else judging by the absence of make up now. Because otherwise you would have applied it knowing you were going to see Lestrade and me.” Molly’s eyes are almost gleaming with tears, after years of knowing Sherlock she still is not used to his childish cruelty or maybe the pause was too long and she forgot how to ignore it. “Which means, you’re living together and you did not want him to get suspicious. You’re conscious of this because you do know he should be suspicious because you’re having an affair with Lestrade.”

Molly takes a sip of her coffee and her mouth is trembling but when she speaks her voice is unexpectedly steely.

“Don’t you dare think that now that you are back from your… voyage with Jim and dating other people apparently you have become an expert in relationships and can judge me and…”, she is struggling to find the appropriate word, “deduce me”. She swallows and exhales. Sherlock feels as if coming up from the depth of his deduction. The flow has taken him so easily, after all this time, seeing a familiar face and coming back to business was so refreshing that he has come back to his usual mode which now seems to no longer fit the reality. You thought the world remained the same for these two years waiting for you, Sherlock, but it did not. Panta rhei.

Lestrade comes back only to see Molly close to tears and Sherlock ashamed and somehow faded. He looks at her then at him than at her again.

“Can I take the phone?” Lestrade shakes his head disapprovingly. “Just until tomorrow.”

“Sherlock, it’s not like it was before…” Lestrade rubs his forehead. Sherlock notices more gray strings in his hair but this somehow fits him. He darts a quick look at Molly. Her sensitive skin is dryer now and the wrinkles around her mouth are more visible. Must be smoking a bit. Sherlock feels an urge to have a cigarette right now.

Sherlock ignores Lestrade’s no and puts the phone in a plastic bag and then in his pocket.

“I need to see the body”.

Sherlock looks at the corpse. Weird how each of our decisions changes the future. If he had let Moran stay at him the night he could have been alive now. Alive and naked in Sherlock’s bed. And now he is dead and naked on the slab.

Molly uncovers it without a word. Sherlock hesitates and pulls down the sheet. The moment before Moran’s lower body is revealed Sherlock feels his heart jumps. Lestrade mistakes it for a shock at the sight of the presumable Sherlock’s new lover dead body and looks away. Sherlock studies neck, torso, arms, abdomen and finally lowers his eyes to Moran’s hips. The sleek, dry skin with no particular marks. No marks. No. Marks. Sherlock makes an effort to stop himself from smiling right the moment when Lestrade looks back at him questioningly.

* * *

On his way home Sherlock studies the phone - a sleek HTC. He checks the contact list, the notes, the pictures, almost nothing. But there must be something. The e-mail is locked and asking for a password just as all other site profiles. It must be very obvious, there is something with this phone. The profile on the dating site has been created on purpose for Sherlock. Maybe by Jim. Maybe he is trying to get in contact and cannot. He obviously cannot act openly right now given that Mycroft is hunting him up and down the world. But knowing Jim he must be very close to London, Sherlock doubts he would take the risk of being too far away from his people right now. Considering there are not many of them left. Is he considering Sherlock his person? His man? Boyfriend? Sherlock feels awkward asking himself such questions. It does not matter, it does not matter, and he is so above all this casual relationship stuff. It is not about them, it is about other people. He and Jim, they are so special, they should not be defined in any terms. Pathetic. Purely pathetic. If only he could find Jim in his bedroom upon entering it. Just like it was two years ago. All that Richard Brook story, was it just an excuse for both of them to play normality? Just for some time, to pretend they could be ok, truly ok, pretend this hatefully normal life could be actually quite nice? Sherlock hates being like this, so human, so desperately asking for a miracle. Please, Jim, just wait for me there.

But the house is empty. Remember, Sherlock, it is not a fairytale. No miracle for you tonight. Your return is a miracle for John and Lestrade. You can play such tricks. But you cannot stand being played such tricks to.

The bedroom is silent and Sherlock does not feel ready to come back to sleep. He is too excited. The phone in his hand, Moran’s provocation being just a mere provocation, the burning memories. He needs to think. He needs to think quickly. His eyes fall upon the plastic bag Moran has left him. Must be some good stuff. Could try it. He takes it out of the bag. A white sleek two-piece capsule, quite heavy, must be pretty full. Sherlock is tempted to swallow the pill but caution prompts opening it first. He goes to the kitchen and takes one of his test saucers. He already imagines licking the grains of the white powder from his fingers but what falls out of the capsule is far from this. It is a micro sd card and Sherlock knows immediately where it goes. Moran’s phone.

He can hear his own blood pumping through his body as he inserts it in the slot. The access is protected with a password and Sherlock digits it slowly as if in a dream.

IOU.

The phone thinks for a second and then a flow of numbers invade the display and a binary code forms. Scrolling its down Sherlock is not hiding a large smile as if facing someone dear.

“Thank you, Jim…”

Sherlock goes to bed. He needs to have some physical rest though his mind cannot stop filled with 1 and 0.

* * *

_That’s a French summer night, one of those that lack any other definition than “lovely”._

_Sherlock reaches out and pushes a sweaty lock of Jim’s hair away from his forehead. The air conditioner is on but August is tough here and useless when they make out like they have just done._

_“You can’t sleep these nights.”_

_“I’m afraid of dying unremarkably asleep.” Jim grins into the darkness, his eyelids are heavy though._

_“Mad.”_

_“No greater mind has ever existed without a touch of madness, Aristotle said.”_

_“I don’t think I am mad. People might.” Sherlock mumbles into the pillow. His whole body is like butter. He dreams of melting down and just fusing with the bed under them._

_“Ordinary people can never get over the fact that geniuses exist.”_

_“Geniuses are not born like that. What people do not realize is that practice and repetition is fundamental to improve what has already been given by nature. If I were born and left in a forest I doubt I would have become what I have become. They fill their lives and heads with rubbish and then they wonder how come they understand so little and learn so slowly. Everything degenerates without exercise. Nothing becomes beautiful without hard work. Years, decades of practice.”_

_“It’s like playing a violin.” Jim takes Sherlock hands and strokes his fingers tasting the sensation of now softened calluses underneath. He imagines the strings getting into his flesh leaving painful red marks, the vibration spreading all over his body with exercise, the concentration and the tenacity. He presses his fingertips against Sherlock’s and feels his pulse. This is however far more intimate than what they were doing just a quarter of an hour before. This is somehow Jim knows cannot be repeated with no one else._

_“Of course, one has to be superior from the start but it does not mean he will necessarily become the greatest.”_

_Sherlock hisses lightly as Jim squeezes his fingers with no delicacy at the word “superior”. His heart pumps harder. Talking like this lying in darkness next to a man who needs no explanation and cannot be offended by superiority issues as Sherlock sometimes darkly suspects he is superior to his own genius is… is… liberating._

_“It’s like stars, you know.”_

_Sherlock puckers up a bit. He does not know and Jim is well aware he does not and he smiles with a boyish malice looking at Sherlock’s expression._

_“Stars have to have a certain mass to produce a supernova which is so bright that sometimes it can be seen without any special equipment. To form a supernova a binary star system is necessary. Two stars have a common barycenter and orbit one another. One of the two stars at some point becomes a giant and it gets the second star and they start spiraling together within a common space. It is called an envelope. And they merge within it. And gradually the core separates from the envelope. The giant star spills gas on the second one and its mass increases and explodes at the end giving people an unforgettable light show which happens billion of light years away from them. There are so many stars, so many solitary stars and it is very rare that two solitary stars collide. It only happens once in a billion years.”_

_Sherlock looks curious at Jim whose eyes are gleaming in the dark with passion. This must be the same expression Sherlock has speaking about Chemistry. He can get that Jim literally can see this whole scene unfolding on the ceiling he is staring at picturing the events._

_“And what happens after the explosion?”_

_Sherlock somehow feels he is worried by the forthcoming answer._

_“A supernova remnant can be seen. It is a luminous blast wave travelling through space for centuries and while it is still bright now it is just a reflection of the precedent explosion. You can see and admire it but now this is no longer a supernova, its peak is a distant memory. What a glorious afterdeath, isn’t it?”_

_Sherlock does not reply and Jim keeps rambling._

_“I would like to die like this. A strongest impact making them go awww and a beautiful explosion that would echo through the galaxy on and on.”_

_“You would need to collide with another star first,” Sherlock’s remark gets another meaning as Jim turns his head to look at him with intensity Sherlock has never known. He cannot look away when Jim stares at him like this and he feels tension spreading all over his body so relaxed after a recent release. The air becomes dense and the perfect silence of this summer night scares Sherlock. He desperately craves London’s chaos and noise and solitude and sleepless nights and experiments and drugs to hide into. He feels he is collapsing inside, the pieces of his hard shell break and are sucked into the space and his core is exposed and burning and melting, fusing with another core and an orbit is driving him round and his head spins and he wants to escape but he knows he cannot as the bright light fills his mind and a supernova light splash floods all over his being and his life and he lies there shaken and there is no way of denying this. This. This._

_“I think I already have.” Jim’s voice is echoing inside Sherlock’s chest and passes through him like a supernova remnant. The space shrinks to the mere inch between them as Sherlock keeps falling inside himself under Jim’s gaze._

_This…_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I quite like Moran in the series and this is how I pictured him writing the story.


End file.
